Unrivaled (23 page)

I was out for the third night in a row with Alfred. And Evelyn. I should have been at a Christmas concert, but I couldn’t stand to think of leaving the two of them alone. The way he kept looking at her made me afraid he would do something stupid.

Or
ungallant,
as he was so fond of saying.

He excused himself to go get Evelyn a drink.

She put an elbow to the table and leaned her head against her hand as she watched him. “You know he shouldn’t be marrying that girl.”

“I know.” I knew! That’s what I’d told Lucy.

“He doesn’t love her.”

And she didn’t love him. “It’s not about love.” At least that’s what Lucy had said. “It’s about candy.”

“What?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

She’d turned her big green eyes on me. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Who knew? I should be thanking her. If she could get Alfred to leave Lucy alone, she’d be doing me a favor. I once thought Lucy might be able to loosen him up a little, but he was so loose now he was in danger of leaping onto a stage and crooning a song himself. He didn’t deserve Lucy. With the best girl in the world on his arm, he seemed set on taking up with a saloon singer.

But I had a feeling that Alfred Arthur was one of those fellows who would never go back on a handshake. Or a marriage proposal.

Back in Chicago, I would have been cheering for a working girl like Evelyn. I would have wanted to see her snag a rich man. But now I knew the rich man. And Alfred was too nice—too good—to be waylaid by a girl with those intentions. Except that he wasn’t being so nice right now, was he?

And then again, his money was the reason Lucy wanted him too.

So which of them was worse?

And why did I even care?! Lucy wanted nothing to do with me anyway.

One thing was sure: Alfred couldn’t keep seeing Evelyn without consequences. Someone was going to notice soon. And once word got out, he’d be ruined. It wouldn’t matter that he was an Arthur, and no one would care that he was usually so dull and grim.

But most of all I was worried about what it would do to Lucy. She’d have no one but me to thank for the humiliation of having lost her fiancé to a saloon girl. And it would give her one more reason to hate me.

Evelyn laid a hand on my arm. “I’m not a bad person.”

She wasn’t. I’d revised my opinion over the past two nights. She was nice in the very same way that Alfred was nice. They’d
be a perfect match if she weren’t a saloon singer. Though she’d been blessed with an angel’s voice, she’d been cursed with the inability to use it anywhere but in a place like Chestnut Valley.

“Is it so terrible to want to have someone to talk to? Someone who really seems to understand me? Someone who could look after me?”

When it came down to it, she only wanted the same thing that Lucy did. And I hated them both. Girls were nothing but trouble.

“We’ve become quite fond of each other. What’s so wrong with that?”

There were all kinds of everything wrong with that, that’s what was wrong with it! I was going to have to have a good long talk with the fellow.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” We were watching Evelyn sing from our table in the corner. Alfred, who hadn’t been in the habit of drinking anything stronger than lemonade, had just that evening decided he liked beer.

“She’s a saloon singer.” May Evelyn forgive me! But even she would say there was no point in denying the obvious. And she’d never tried to . . . which only made the whole thing worse.

“She doesn’t have to be. Not forever.”

I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him past the bar, through the kitchen, and then threw him out into the alley. “Get ahold of yourself!”

He stood there blinking at me as he swayed in the moonlight. “I think I’m—” He bent over, hands to his knees, and vomited. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth. Then he looked around as if wondering what to do with it.

Why was it that rich people couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with their messes? I tore it from his hand and threw it into a garbage can.

“But—that’s mine!”

“Do you want it back?”

He gave the garbage can a leery look. “ . . . No.”

“Listen to me. If you don’t stop this right now, you’re going to ruin everything.”

“I hardly think that—”

I held up a hand. “Just listen. You’re engaged to Lucy Kendall. How could you even think . . . whatever it is that you’re thinking?”

“I’m not . . . I mean . . . I never intended—but what I feel for Evelyn—”

“What would Lucy say, seeing you standing here, declaring your feelings for some saloon girl?” Why was I defending Lucy Kendall? Why was I out here in the alley with Alfred trying to make him stay faithful to the girl I wanted? Curse Lucy Kendall. This was all her fault!

I put a hand to his shoulder. “You’re a reasonable fellow. What do you suppose all those folks at the symphony and opera and . . . and
church
would think of you spending your nights down here?”

He looked toward the saloon. Grimaced. “Right. You’re right. I don’t know what I’ve been doing. This is completely unlike me. Of course, you’re right. I can’t imagine . . .”

I could. I could imagine all sorts of terrible things happening.

“I should break things off with Lucy right now.”

Wait. “What?”

“It’s the only honorable thing to do.”

I caught him by his collar as he tried to walk past. “Wait just a minute. Are you telling me . . . ?”

“I’m an honorable man who’s been going about all this in a completely dishonorable way.”

That was better. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You can’t be engaged to Lucy and go around spending so much time with Evelyn. It isn’t right.”

“Which is what
I’ve
been trying to say. The only honorable thing to do is to break the engagement.”

“You mean . . . you’re choosing
Evelyn
?”

He straightened his tie, swiped a hand across his mouth, and squared his shoulders. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Apparently my mouth had fallen open because I found myself closing it back up. “Just how many of those drinks did you have?”

He squinted up at the night sky. “One . . . two . . . three. I had three.”

“What you need is time. In a few hours the beer will wear off, and you’ll start thinking like yourself again.”

“I
am
thinking like myself. I’m more myself than I’ve ever been.”

“It’s the beer talking. Believe me.”

He put a hand to his chest. “It’s not the beer. It’s my heart.”

“Hogwash! Now, are you coming or not?” I started down the alleyway toward the street.

He screwed up his jaw and raised his chin. “Not.”

“I’m warning you, Alfred!”

“I’m not coming. Besides . . . I left my hat inside.”

“You left your
hat
?”

He nodded. “Inside. I’ll just go get it. If you’ll pardon me . . .”

I hoped he would pardon what
I
was about to do. He hadn’t left me any choice. I did what I’d done back on the South Side when a fellow wouldn’t listen to reason. I hauled back my fist and then I popped him in the nose.

At least, that’s what I meant to do. But he ducked. Then he started bobbing and weaving like the best of prizefighters.

“Stop it, Alfred! Stand still.”

“Can’t. Boxing Team, Columbia University. Class of ’01. I was their best pugilist.”

I took a second swing at him.

He ducked again.

“Alfred Arthur! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Evelyn called out from the saloon’s back door.

Though Alfred didn’t put his hands down, he stepped back, away from me, and shot a glance at her over his shoulder. “He said I shouldn’t be spending time with you.”

Evelyn put a fist to her hip. “And he’s perfectly right!”

I—I was?

“You mean . . . you don’t want me?” Arthur put his fists down. And then he stumbled toward her.

I was tempted to belt him one, but that wouldn’t have been polite. Not when his back was turned.

“Not like this. It isn’t right.” She pulled her lips into a firm, straight line that all the Miss Pirkles in the world would have been proud of. “Now.” She handed him his hat. “I want you to go home and think about what it is that you want.”

“But, Evelyn!”

“And when you’ve figured it out, then we can talk.”

“I can’t do it anymore, Lucy. It doesn’t seem right.” Sam was pacing on the back porch Friday evening as I stood watching, clasping my arms around my chest to keep warm. The sun was lingering in the darkening sky as though dreading the plunge into the cold, dark oblivion beyond the horizon.

I peered at him through the gloom. “It’s not as if we’re the first to ever do it. What’s the harm?”

“The harm is, what if somebody sees me? And the other harm is, I have actual work to do. Down at the confectionery! My father’s counting on me.”

And so was mine! . . . Even if he didn’t quite know it. “Think of it as a . . . a chance for more people to try Fancy Crunch. The reason it hasn’t been selling is that people have forgotten they can buy it. We don’t have the money to put up new posters, and Standard has been taking all of our business.”

He paused and sent me a dubious look.

“Really, Sam. You’re doing everyone in St. Louis a favor.
You’re giving them the chance to remember how much they like Fancy Crunch.” And if everything went like I planned, then sales would go up and we’d have enough money to stay in business . . . though I’d still have to marry Mr. Arthur. I put that thought aside for the moment. I’d been doing quite a bit of putting that thought aside recently.

“I guess . . .”

“It’s not like you’re taking their candy from the shelves. You’re just putting ours in front of theirs. You’re
rearranging
things.”

“I suppose . . .”

“You know they’d do the same if they’d thought of it.” In fact, they probably already had. I wouldn’t put it past that Charlie Clarke! “Just one more day. Please?”

His face was tense with indecision but finally he nodded, patted his hat down around his ears, and headed toward the porch’s screen door.

“Can’t you stay? I was thinking of making some fudge. I know how much you like it.”

“Can’t. I have plans.”

Plans that were better than fudge? He’d never turned down fudge before. What was wrong with him?

It was hard to sleep that night. It wasn’t because I’d eaten too much fudge and it definitely wasn’t because I was feeling guilty. The Clarkes deserved whatever they got. It’s just that hiding their taffy behind our Fancy Crunch was only a temporary solution. What City Confectionery needed was a permanent way to make more money.

We could sell more candy. That would bring in more money.

We could spend less to make the candy. That would bring in more money too.

Or . . . we could charge more for the candy. But we’d already tried that and it had just caused more people to buy Royal Taffy.

There had to be a way! I had to think harder. I had to think smarter. But first I had to suffer through Christmas Eve. And Christmas Day.

Christmas Eve wasn’t too terrible. I had to share the church with Charlie Clarke, but the Clarkes always sat behind us, so most of the time I was able to pretend he wasn’t there. When I walked past their pew after service ended, I looked the other direction. Mother wanted to hurry home to make sure we could have supper while Father was still awake, so we didn’t even linger in the foyer.

The maid delivered the food upstairs on Chinese lacquer trays so we could all eat together, but Father quit halfway through. He said all the chewing tired him.

Mother nodded toward the bed, and I went to cut the rest of his meat up for him, but he waved it away, so I put the tray aside. We finished soon after, Mother and I, but before leaving, I gave him the last of my Mozartkugels as a present. His eyes gleamed, and for a moment it seemed like old times. But he only set it on the nightstand before lying back on his pillow and saying good-night.

Father had always been the chief enthusiast of holidays, so without him, Christmas Eve was simply another frigid winter’s night. And Christmas morning was just another case of the sun rising, tardy and pale, to survey a bleak winter morning.

I gave Mother the tablecloth I bought her in Brussels, and she gave me a set of monogrammed napkins. Large
A
’s had been embroidered upon them in satin stitch with shiny white silk thread. I put them in my hope chest, laying them on top of the
newspaper-wrapped pillow tops, lace doilies, linens, and my rapidly dwindling collection of uneaten candy. As I closed the lid I thought about the dreams and wishes I had placed inside that chest over the years. How simple they now seemed. How happy I had once imagined I would be. But life hadn’t turned out the way I’d expected.

I hadn’t planned on Mr. Arthur, and I hadn’t known there would be a Charlie Clarke.

It felt as if I’d wasted all my dreams. It seemed as if I ought to have hoped for other things. But I didn’t know what they were. And, for better or worse, it was too late now.